Dark on the Other Side (24 page)

II

Michael put down the telephone.

“They expect him tonight or early tomorrow,” he said. Sun
streamed in the window. It was mid-morning, and a beautiful spring day.
Outside. The room had another atmosphere. They had both fought their
way back to some kind of calm, but the air was cold with tension.

“Tonight,” Linda repeated thoughtfully.

“Or tomorrow. He never knows till the last minute what
plane he’ll be catching. Usually he wires to let them know, but not
always; he drives himself, so he doesn’t have to be met.”

Michael knew he must sound like a host trying to
entertain an unwanted guest. He couldn’t help it; something had
happened to his brain. Up to this point he had been able to consider
and discuss everything that had happened; he had even been able to
apply logic to a concept that was considered to be beyond logic. But
last night…His mind balked at that, he couldn’t even think about it,
much less discuss it. He was behaving as if it hadn’t happened. Which
was not only stupid; it was potentially dangerous.

He looked at Linda. Sitting upright on the bed, she
sipped her coffee. Her hands were free, but her ankles were still
bound; at her insistence, he had again fastened them to the footboard
of the bed. He had felt sick while doing it, and he felt sick every
time he looked. But it was a small price to pay for the composure of
her face. She had fought this latest catastrophe, and come through it,
as she had come through all the others; but he thought that she must be
like someone clinging to a single strand of rope, over an abyss,
slipping inexorably down each time her grasp on reality failed. The
frantic hands might tighten, temporarily stopping the descent, or even
claw their way back up the rope, a few precious inches toward safety.
But inevitably the grasp would weaken again, and each time the fall
would be arrested a little farther down, toward the end of the rope and
the final plunge.

“I left a message,” he said. “Asking him to call the
minute he gets in.”

“We’re acting like children,” Linda said. “Waiting for
this man as if he were God, or…Why do you think he can help us?”

“I don’t. I just don’t know what else to do.”

“How is your arm?”

“Hurts. It’s not that, nor the fact that I’m bushed.
Something’s happened to what passes for my brain. I can’t…I can’t
think.”

“Physical exhaustion doesn’t help,” she said, with a
briskness that was contradicted by the tenderness of her mouth. They
both knew that they could not afford an exchange of sympathies. In a
battle, minor wounds must go untended.

“My own brain isn’t working very well either,” she went
on. “But one thing is clear, Michael. I can’t spend another night with
you.”

“It’s a good thing nobody is listening to this
conversation,” Michael said wryly.

She gave him a strained smile.

“I mean it, though.”

“Why is it night you’re afraid of? Isn’t that childish
too?”

“Fear of the dark…Maybe. But everything that has happened
so far happened at night.”

“When the powers of evil walk abroad…”

“You see? It means something to you. What was it you
said, last night—about the dark on the other side?”

Michael twitched uncomfortably.

“Kwame—Joe Schwartz—said that. About Gordon. He was
talking about the old Platonic image of the shadows on the wall of the
cave, but it turned me cold to hear him, I can tell you. Not the
shadows, but the Things that cast the shadows, the Things that prowl
the dark, on the other side of the fire. Gordon knows about them, he
said. It was pretty obvious that he did, too.”

“Poor Joe.”

“He takes dope,” Michael said. “Some kind of
hallucinogenic.”

“But you don’t. Why does the phrase make you so
uncomfortable?”

“Racial memory?” Michael offered wildly. “Some hairy,
beetle-browed ancestor of mine, squatting in his cave, with his puny
fire and his club the only defense against the things that prowled
outside in the dark. Saber-toothed tigers and mastodons…”

There was no answering spark of amusement in her face.

“Go on,” she said.

“Well…Too many horror stories when I was a kid. The other
side of what? Eternity? The threshold of this world? The doorway that
separates the living from the dead? Spiritualists talk about ‘the other
world,’ don’t they, to describe the region from which they get their
communications?” He was getting interested; he went on, catching the
impressions as they floated up into consciousness. “When Kwame talked
of the dark on the other side of the fire, he was thinking of
The
Republic
, but also of that other image. This world, narrow
and circumscribed as opposed to the spiritual reality of the other
side. The dark…That idea is not in Plato, damn it, if I remember my
classics, which I probably don’t. For him, the non-material, ideal
world was one of light, of true consciousness. A spiritualist would see
it that way, too. What do the discarnate entities keep mumbling when
they are asked about their world?”

“Sunshine, light, flowers, love,” Linda said promptly.

“Right. So why does this world of light and flowers seem
to Kwame to be transmuted into darkness—not empty night, but a place
where shadows live? Darkness and light, the primeval symbols of evil
and good; the notion of a balance of forces, eternally warring, never
ending. There are times, for everyone, when he feels himself the
plaything of forces from somewhere outside, forces beyond his control,
which strike him when he least expects it. ‘Out of the night that
covers me…’”

“Imagery, poetic,” Linda said, as his voice trailed away.
“It’s frightening, though, isn’t it? ‘Black as the pit from pole to
pole…’”

“Poetic imagery is part of the picture I get. Black as
the pit…black as Hell…There’s a nice conventional image of fire and
darkness for you.”

“The familiar Calvinist Hell.”

“It’s funny,” Michael went on thoughtfully, “how many of
the pre-Christian afterworlds were dark. That terrible twilight place
the classical poets describe, where the dead speak with faint voices
like the piping of birds…. Didn’t the Egyptians go down under the earth
into darkness where the sun-god never came?”

“You’re out of my field,” Linda said.

“Darkness and light, black and white; even the colors
have symbolism. White is the color of purity, the garments of the
Virgin and the priest…. What’s the matter?”

“Sorry. It reminded me of Briggs, and every time I think
of him I get a chill.”

“Why Briggs?” Michael grinned. “Not the color of purity,
surely.”

“Didn’t you know? No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Gordon must
have told you about Briggs’s being unfairly dismissed from his job, and
all that? He never told you what the job was, though…. Briggs is an
unfrocked priest.”

“What?”

“I guess that sounds melodramatic. Actually, he was a
student for the priesthood. They threw him out. Very politely, I
imagine. I can also imagine why.”

“My God…Linda, what is Briggs? I mean, what role does he
play in relation to Gordon?”

“I’ve wondered so often myself. Sometimes I think he’s
just another victim, but a willing one. Sometimes I see him as the
éminence
grise
behind Gordon’s latest activities. They’re hand in
glove, anyway, never doubt that.”

Her face was averted, her voice rapid. She could hardly
speak of the man, her loathing was so great. Michael realized that the
basis for her aversion was more than a spiritual rejection. Perhaps it
had not been Briggs’s dabbling in questionable theology that had caused
his expulsion, but rather his inability to conform to the basic tenets
of the priestly orders. He wondered whether Gordon was aware of his
colleague’s attitude toward his wife; and knew that, if Gordon was what
they had conjectured him to be, this would only be another weapon in
his hands.

In the middle of the afternoon, Napoleon returned.

Michael hadn’t noticed his long absence; he had too many
other things to worry about. He was in the kitchen making another pot
of coffee when the heavy body thudded down onto the counter; and then
he remembered that Napoleon never missed coming home for breakfast.

He reached out for the animal, expecting the usual snarl
and rebuff. But Napoleon’s lackluster stare remained fixed on thin air
and he did not move. Michael passed his hands over the cat’s body. He
found no new wounds. Whatever else he had been doing, Napoleon had not
been fighting. Which was in itself a sign of something wrong.

Lifting the unresponsive bulk, he carried it into the
bedroom.

“He’s sick,” he said, sounding like a nervous parent.

Linda looked up from the book she was not reading.

“Let me see.”

Michael dumped the cat onto her lap and Linda
investigated.

“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “He’s a mess—why
don’t you chaperon him better?—but what’s left of his fur feels sleek
enough. And his eyes look okay….”

Returning her look owlishly, Napoleon made the rusty
grinding noise that passed for a purr. When Michael reached out for
him, he eluded his master’s hand with the old agility, and leaped down
off the bed. Michael trailed along after him while Napoleon made a
thorough inspection of the apartment, from bathroom to kitchen. Having
arrived at his food dish, he squatted down in front of it and began to
gulp with a ravenous intensity that relieved much of Michael’s worry.

He wandered back into the bedroom.

“He’s eating.”

“I expect he’s all right, then. Michael…Would you think
me ridiculous if I found his return reassuring?”

“I never thought of that. Hell, honey, it’s illogical.
Cats are supposed to fawn on demons.”

She didn’t answer. Michael sat down wearily on the edge
of the bed and put his hand on her ankles. He ran his finger under the
thick silk, making sure it was not too tight.

“Don’t,” she said.

“It’s stupid,” Michael burst out. “You can untie it
yourself any time you want to.”

“But it would take time. You’d have some warning.”

“For God’s sake—”

“What time is it?’”

“About two.”

“Don’t lie.”

“All right! Three. Well, maybe three thirty…”

“Another hour,” she said. “We must leave a wide margin.”

“I’ll call Galen again.”

“You’ve called twice in the last hour. They’ll give him
your message.”

“And if he doesn’t come by the time your deadline is up?”

“I won’t stay here tonight.”

“A hotel room won’t be any safer,” Michael said,
deliberately misunderstanding her.

“It’s not a hotel room I’m contemplating.”

“Linda, you can’t do that! If you get yourself committed
to some hospital, the only one who could possibly get you out is Gordon
himself. I don’t even have the legal right to ask questions. You can’t
lock yourself into a room and throw away the key.”

“I will not stay here tonight.”

“You’ll have to,” Michael said. “I won’t let you go.”

She looked up at him, a pale ghost of humor in her face.

“Funny. You’re driven to the same extremity I tried to
force you to earlier. Yes, you can keep me here. Bound and gagged…Have
you thought about how it would look, if someone forced his way in and
found me like that?”

“Constantly,” Michael said with a groan.

“And you’d risk that?”

Michael reached out for her, compulsively, but she fended
him off with a strength that had panic behind it.

“Don’t, don’t ever do that! You kissed me last night,
before—”

“You don’t mean…” Michael hesitated. He was surprised,
and disgusted, to realize that his predominant emotion was jealousy.

“There may be a connection,” she said. Her eyes refused
to meet his. “I won’t…go into details. But there may be.”

“I see.”

“That would have to be one of the conditions we must
agree to, if I do stay.”

“I’m not that big a fool,” Michael said roughly. “Even if
I do act like it most of the time. What other conditions?”

“Have you got any sleeping pills?”

“Never use the things. What makes you think they would
help? I’d be inclined to suspect the reverse. The less control you have
over your conscious mind…”

“Since you don’t have any, there’s not much point in
debating that.”

“How true. Anything else?”

“Find a key for that door. And barricade it.”

“Honey, for the love of Mike—what if there’s a fire, or a
burglar, or—something else? We can’t anticipate his moves; he might do
anything. If I couldn’t get to you—”

“It’s a risk we must take.” Her eyes were hard as stone;
the eyes of a fanatic. “Another thing. I want you to search this place
from top to bottom. Make sure Gordon hasn’t left any other little
souvenirs, like the notebook.”

“You think…?”Michael cogitated. “I wonder.”

“I’m not thinking, I’m just grasping at straws. But
according to some occult theories, there must be a physical connection
between the spell and the person whom it is meant to affect—like the
doll, which uses the victim’s own hair or nail clippings. Why not a
physical connection, a focus, for the warlock’s spells? Gordon isn’t
careless about his belongings. That notebook was left here
deliberately.”

“I agree. I’m sloppy, but not unconscious; the book was
planted under a pile of material I wouldn’t ordinarily refer to. Wait a
minute. If your theory is right, he must have planted something at
Andrea’s house.”

“He’s been there any number of times.”

“He went there looking for you, before you came here the
first time,” Michael said. “He admitted entering the house.”

“So it’s possible. I’m not sure of this, Michael. I think
it’s worth checking, though.”

“I’m trying to figure out when he could have hidden the
notebook.”